I Win
by KaraokeQueen88
Summary: Holby City. Connie's school days and what led her to become who she is. "Call me the queen of hearts instead, that will do."


I was a kid in school uniform when I knew them. The trousers were grey and the jumper shockingly bright red; not a flattering outfit for anyone really, never mind someone who looked like me. My shoes were flat, because I could run faster in them. Always flat, boring, steadfast black, with black socks and those hideous grey trousers, too baggy and poorly cut. My jumper never fitted well either; it hung over my undeveloped chest and dropped over my flat stomach. I would kill for a stomach as flat as that these days but time is of the essence!

I was eleven years old. I was mature; I liked reading and my favourite author was Sylvia Plath, a far cry from the Enid Blyton novels of my childhood. To some, eleven will seem remarkably young to be writing off childhood, but when I was eleven, I knew them. People like them don't let you be a child for long. I was a walking target, and looking back I can see that clearly. I looked at the floor when I walked, or the ceiling, or a book, because I never could look at people when I was talking to them when I was young. I looked at the ground when I walked; I was seventeen and at university before I stopped doing that, and in a crowd I still had to consciously think about keeping my head up.

There aren't many people over the age of eighteen months who can't make conversation because they are concentrating on holding their head up right.

I don't know why they hated me so much. People cried jealousy to make me feel better, but it never did. I had long since passed the level of naivety where I could be easily appeased by lies. They hated the way I looked, and so did I which gave them even more to play on. They used to comment on my straggly, greasy hair, the hair of an adolescent girl. I wash my hair every day now whether it needs it or not, and I wear it short and use deep condition treatments and complain when I don't have time to get it cut every eight or ten weeks. They would tell me I was too thin, and I gained weight in my early teens. It fell off me again by sixteen or so. I'm not supposed to be any more than a size ten, it doesn't suit me.

My voice was the killer. I didn't speak in the dialect by the time I went to high school and I never, ever, ever have again. I hated it, the shrill shrieks and the twang and the words that you would never find in any dictionary. My accent is more Queens English than anything most days; sometimes, in anger, I find myself slipping back, though most days I can remain nondescript. You cannot tell where I come from by listening to me speak and I like that anonymity.

They did not.

Posh. Stuck up. Full of herself. Nose in the air.

Snob.

Snob.

Snob.

To this day, I despise that word. And I despise the fact that an accent can rouse such hatred in children. I do not like to surround myself with people – as a result, I have never had a great deal of friends. I keep people at a distance; speak around them instead of too them. They spoke over the top of me as though I was not even there.

Speak normally. Speak properly. Be like us. All the underlying commands and I was never much good at following orders, not even back then. I loathed the sound of my own voice, especially on a tape recorder back then. I would not speak on the phone unless it was to family or it was an absolute necessity.

Changing myself throughout high school paid off. At my university interview, I was told that I have a beautiful accent, clear as a bell.

I had a high school science teacher who loved how I spoke, so different from the rest of them. She would make me read aloud at any opportunity she had. It wasn't her fault, she didn't know they were laughing and sniggering at me, and even when I told her I didn't want to read anymore she never guessed. There were a lot of people who never guessed.

They despised the fact that I was cleverer than them.

Swot. Teacher's pet. Up the teacher's arse.

Snob.

Snob.

Snob.

I wanted to sit my Higher exams; I wanted to go to university. I found my strength the year I sat my Highers and I changed. I don't know why, maybe after all those years I had just grown tired, but I found my strength. I became a force to be reckoned with. I still saw them around, more then than ever before, in pubs and at parties. They used to get drunker than me and sometimes make a fool of themselves. I liked to maintain my self control.

Control freak. Old before your time. Boring bitch.

Snob.

Snob.

Snob.

I applied to university to study Medicine because the only thing I had ever contemplated becoming was a Doctor. I worked during my degree too, in a bakery first of all, then a call centre. I found both jobs exceedingly difficult, but in the bakery I realised that if customers understood me, far away from home, then my old hated accent was long gone. I even made a few new friends at university. I'll never be Miss Congeniality; I'm too much of a perfectionist with far too high expectations for that.

I worked through my degree, building my sense of self belief and icy demeanour with each assignment I completed. I shocked fully qualified surgeons with my knowledge as an F2, and I began to rise through the ranks, ensuring that I was spotted by the right people.

Occasionally sleeping with the right people, although never to secure employment.

And knowing my then-boyfriend now ex-husband did not hurt.

A lot has changed since I was eleven. Some aspects of my life, thanks to them, will never, ever be the same again. I am not the person I was, and I knew in the first moment that I was chosen as a victim that I would never be that person again. I still will not use the phone if at all avoidable. I have scarce few close friends. I do not enjoy long term relationships; the closeness is just too much. I've come close, a few times, but almost anonymous, casual sex, is far easier. I never wanted children and before them I wanted a family. I work harder each day my daughter is in my life; I live in fear of raising a little version of me, and I do not want that.

I am a crazed perfectionist. Anything less than one hundred per cent will not do. I have never failed an exam. I have never failed an essay. I have never gotten less than an A for an essay. I passed my driving test first time. I never have a bad hair or skin or clothes or weight day. I push myself so hard, until I feel like screaming. I never ask for help. And I never cry.

I run on nervous energy, all day every day.

And yet, there is a great deal that has changed for the better since I became that new person. I have a few good friends. I have long nails and nice hair and a good figure. My trousers are tight and my jumpers cling to my curves in an attractive way. I only wear flat shoes to drive; I like high heels and I can walk confidently in them, knowing that no one is waiting to see me fall. I have an accent that grants me anonymity wherever I go. I do not rely on men and that is the way I want it. I still love to read. I am a good Doctor and a world class surgeon and I have the awards and accolades and my father's scrapbook to prove it. I can hear someone laugh and not assume they are laughing at me. I can meet people's eyes in a crowd. I can walk with my head held up.

I lived in a small room and my father drank and my mother cried. I was not posh.

I am the first to push myself. I am not full of myself.

I walk with my head up. My nose sits where it is meant to.

I worked hard. I was not a swot.

People liked me because I was a good person deep down. I was not a teacher's pet.

I please only me and make everyone else please me too. I am not up anyone's arse.

I am organised and confident and in control. I am not a control freak.

I don't get drunk, but I do love wine and casual sex. I am not old before my time.

I capture the interests of thousands across the world. I am not a boring bitch.

If I could live my life over again, I would. I would live it a thousand times to end up as the person I am now. Bullies only win if victims let them. I could have run at fifteen with no qualifications or confidence to work, or drive, or socialise, but they would have gone to university and worked and bought houses and cars and lived a life and why should they have those pleasures and not me? I do not wish them unhappiness, although my persona makes me seem so ice cold that no one would believe that. I only wish that their conscious will never allow them to forget me.

I am a daughter and a mother and a surgeon and a friend. I may be intelligent and have an accent that sounds nothing like theirs but I am not a snob.

Call me the queen of hearts instead, that will do.

I am happy. And clever and accomplished and successful and a parent and confident and beautiful and promiscuous and guarded and untrusting, but I am happy.

In the end, I think that means I won.


End file.
